


blood runs in rivers (and tastes of cherry wine)

by Evelyn_fireheart



Series: she's dusted by flames (burns like one too) [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clary Fray, BAMF Isabelle Lightwood, Background Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Badass, Clary Fray & Isabelle Lightwood Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), One Shot, Protective Clary Fray, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Supportive Clary Fray, what are you meant to put here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 11:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evelyn_fireheart/pseuds/Evelyn_fireheart
Summary: Isabelle had always been lonely. She was the only daughter of two high-standing Clave officials, a shadowhunter who refused to bow to stereotypes and the opinions of old white men who didn't know what it felt like to fight on New York streets. There was never anyone who wished to be friends with a woman like that- a woman so entrenched in a frenzied infusion of violence and desire. (It's fine. It's not a big thing. It isn't.)Still, it seemed that everyone around her had found their special person. That one person that understands them completely- and loves them anyway. Some call them best friends, soulmates, or a true match, and shadowhunters -if they passed the right tests- called them parabatai. Regardless of what Isabelle called them, she never found one for herself.Instead she had watched from the sidelines as Alec found Jace and they became parabatai, the literal definition of soulmates (platonic or not). The jealousy from that alone had almost turned her to ash.Then, there was Clary.





	blood runs in rivers (and tastes of cherry wine)

**Author's Note:**

> Edits: Just some grammar errors corrected and a few little bits added in :)

Isabelle had always been lonely. She was the only daughter of two high-standing Clave officials, a shadowhunter who refused to bow to stereotypes and the opinions of old white men who didn't know what it felt like to fight on New York streets. There was never anyone who wished to be friends with a woman like that- a woman so entrenched in a frenzied infusion of violence and desire. (It's fine. It's not a big thing. It isn't.)

Still, it seemed that everyone around her had found their special person. That one person that understands them completely- and loves them anyway. Some call them best friends, soulmates, or a true match, and shadowhunters -if they passed the right tests- called them parabatai. Regardless of what Isabelle called them, she never found one for herself.

Instead she had watched from the side-lines as Alec found Jace and they became parabatai, the literal definition of soulmates (platonic or not). The jealousy from that alone had almost turned her to ash.

But then the jealousy began to be tempered by the softness of their love for her, and she began to wilt in turn. Around them, the steel in her bones always became that much weaker; that much more silver than iron. Part of her hated them for it. She knew that, while that small slice of her -a section of her dying, shrivelled heart- would shrink, and her hatred would lessen, in the end, part of her would always hate her brothers. For taking forgiveness when she gave none. For making her into what she did not choose to be. For making her weak.

(What was the tempering of her rage- what was _love_ if it was not a weakness?)

Still, she moved on. Not forward, but on.

* * *

 There were new things to be jealous of and rage over. Alec proved ~~their~~ his parents right in loving him more and she moved on. Jace observed her, supported her, with brotherly affection in his eyes, and she sunned herself in it like a cat by a fireplace. But then, inevitably, Jace would look on and she would stutter in the silence, weakened by the cold. It was hard, but…

Eventually, she moved on.

Not forward, but on.

Even with his easy dismissals and wandering, half-seeing eyes, Jace was warmer than the others. When he ignored her or silenced her with careless remarks, it was never because of her. Isabelle knew that no deeds of her prevented her brother loving her. It was always just him, and his trauma. He was constantly blind to life, so enamoured with the fruits of drifting dejectedly that he didn't notice his younger sister waiting _(always waiting)_ for him to just turn and _see_ her.

After a while, she convinced herself that the love her brothers gave her was enough, that she didn't even need her parents' adoration. She convinced herself that she was thriving because of a feast of love and affection, not surviving in spite of a famine.

She yearned for more anyway. Greedy, greedy hands, always scrabbling for more love so she could stuff the tender cavity in her chest full.

She still moved on, though. Never stopping, never faltering. Always, always moving so the cold didn’t catch up to her and bite at her aching heels.

Isabelle Lightwood had forged herself into a new person by the time they remembered to turn and look at her. When they finally saw, _oh_ how they moaned and screamed for the horrors they glimpsed. She laughed her stunningly fake laugh and flicked her tongue over too-sharp teeth, tasting copper. And when they tried to tear their eyes away from her, she made herself louder and louder- until she was screaming and shouting through red-stained lips that only released threateningly pretty simplicities.

Isabelle made herself into a monster of chaos and darkness, forged herself in flame and damnation until they couldn't look at her and see anything other than hard-earned power. Like angels falling for free will.

Like Lucifer.

* * *

 At birth, Isabelle Lightwood was layered with a curse many of her descendants themselves faced: she was a female shadowhunter. While it did not weigh on her shoulders so much as it did on theirs, it pressed into her; pushed her feet deeper into sodden, unforgiving earth. Luckily, however, she was taught myths and mythology alongside murder. She knows the difference between Atlas and Icarus, gods and titans.

And so, unlike the other beautiful, sharp things in this world, she made them focus on the _female_. She became sinuous shadows, dark eyes and the sensual movement of lips promising war. There was no part of her that was not beautiful, just like there was no part of her that wasn't dangerous.

She chose the guise of Helen of Troy for herself. Not for the famed beauty, or the suitors begging for her love, but for her wildness, her ability to use her appearance as a weapon. Helen of Troy, of death, of glory. Helen of love, of war, of a quiet whisper against a castle wall. Helen, who brought down cities with a twist of her hand, broke the heart of humanity under an unforgiving heel. Isabelle did not choose her for the love men gave her, or the freedom they took away in the same breath.

No. She was never theirs to promise, or to give. In the tales, she is daughter to Zeus, king of the gods. In the tales, she ascends past the world of men, past their wars and their thievery and their possession, and she takes her rightful place in Olympus. This is what Isabelle chooses when she chooses Helen. She chooses Helen of Troy, of Sparta, of Olympus, and she thinks, _ascension._ The world offers her a choice: Atlas or Icarus. Be crushed by your failure and your stupidity, or let arrogance and naivete steer you into the sun.

Every time, she tips her chin up, clenches her jaw, and says, _Helen of the Aegean Sea, of the immortal flame, of the prideless sacrifice._ Isabelle remembers the tales ancient peoples told, remembers their gods, and thinks of her own Angel. She says, _Helen of the silenced, of the sold._ She says, _Helen of bloodshed, of slavery, of freedom._

Perhaps no one else understands her. Perhaps she shall always be sentenced to a solitary existence.

But she will always have this: ascension.

* * *

Jace was the first to notice the figurative claws gracing her fingertips, the first to see just how sharp they'd gotten under her delicate care and look _afraid_. She saw the moment he flinched when they were in the midst of battle, as she slammed a demon to the ground with a flick of her fingers before slamming a blade through its throat.

It had looked like ~~their~~ his father. She hadn't hesitated.

Later she wondered whether that made her a monster. Then she remembered all of the condescension and patronising and decided she didn't care. _(Helen of the lost, of the sold. Helen of the silenced and forgotten. And, beneath it all, this- Helen of Sparta, a Lady of a war-torn nation. Helen of the bloodshed.)_

She moved on.

* * *

One of the only things she couldn't protect herself from was the longing that clawed at her insides. She had moved past the jealousy when it came to Alec and Jace, and had even began to lose her resentment for the bond they shared and the exclusion it pushed upon her, the loneliness it pressed into her very bones.

But the longing followed her on pacing legs, inescapable and relentless. Wherever she went, it was there; a hammer in her head pounding into her soul the knowledge of exactly how lonely she was, how _sad_. She just wanted- she just wanted someone to care. And yes, she has her brothers, but there was only so much they could do when they didn't understand the walls erected around her, couldn't even see them to begin to fathom how to bring them down in the first place.

So, she kept wanting, and hurting, and weighed every statement she made down with blood-stained hope disguised as honey. ( _Helen of slavery, of freedom. Of hope.)_

When she went to Pandemonium, all she wanted was to release some of the rage tearing at her _(not all, never all)_ so she could breathe without it straining her heart. Admittedly, the girl had been a surprise, but she followed her brothers and kept her safe. Her brother returned from his wild goose chase successful, and his eyes were clearer than Isabelle had ever seen them. She didn't know whether to love or hate the girl for it.

Demands were made for a mother in the tone of someone shredded to pieces, an echo that tore at her ears, and Isabelle decided on hate. It was easier, and the girl just had something about her that rubbed her the wrong way. A voice in the back of her head whispered that it was because  _you are the same, two vicious, ugly creatures hidden beneath a flowery façade._

The voice sounded just close enough to ~~the monster's~~ her mother's for her to ignore it. It didn't matter. Isabelle still longed, but this girl didn't deserve to be brought down too. All Isabelle really wanted was someone to join her at the bottom, who she did not have to drag down with guilty fingers. _(Lady of Spring. Queen of the Underworld. Princess of Olympus. Persephone of mercy, of poison, of death.) (Daughters of Zeus, stolen brides, ladies of the living and the lost. Queen meets Queen, kings’ off the board. What next?)_

She moved on.

* * *

Over time, Izzy began to get glimpses of the real personality hiding beneath the girl's fear, and her interest piqued. Jace and the girl- Clary- had begun this kind of fumbling dance, which fascinated Izzy as it was _Jace_ who did the stumbling. Jace, who had been smooth as spun sugar even when blind to the world, was stumbling.  It made Izzy itch to know why. _(Was it you? Why is it always you they are blind to?)_

Isabelle learned that Clary was intelligent and wild, an utter contradiction entrapped in human skin. She picked up fighting like she was forged for war -for _this_ war especially, with her powers over runes- yet her words were carefully picked over, considered with a composure that mirrored that of a diplomat. Each word a careful balance of peace and hostility.

This alone explained why Jace was enamoured with her so Isabelle, stupidly, let the issue settle at the back of her mind, forgotten. Then Isabelle saw Jace gazing at her one day, and saw the hopeless look of a sailor drowning in the sea. In love with the force of nature that Clary had revealed herself to be, and yet lost in what to do about it. She realised that there must be something else. So, she began to look for it.

Ever watching, she began to form a tentative friendship with Clary, and found that she fit with her in a way she had heard about from lessons, ~~her~~ their father, and Alec. _Parabatai_.

One day the realisation hit her, and Isabelle couldn't help but laugh. A real, enduring laugh that echoed around the suddenly silent kitchen.

Alec had glanced up from his book, shifting to peer up at her in concern from his seat at the dining table. She felt rather than saw Jace turn towards her, heard him whisper to Clary, "She's terrifying," even as he raised his voice to say, "You alright there Iz?"

Isabelle turned from the window she had been staring aimlessly out of, a grin lighting up her face, and realised that Clary hadn't even really moved. She had just raised an eyebrow questioningly, and placed a delicate hand on Jace's arm. As if to calm _,_ to ask him to be gentle _._ And Isabelle released another laugh as she realised, she knew why.

_(Oh, you're oh so delicate aren't you, little flower? But you're a Fairchild. There's nothing in you but steel.)_

"I'm fine thank you, brother dear," she says, not even trying to tame the relief running through her. "Clary?"

Clary doesn't seem startled by the question, but instead stands up and steps beyond Jace, quieting his confusion with the raising of her hand. "What do you need, Isabelle?" Oh, thank the angel. This. This is what the wanting and the longing and the yearning was all for- someone who understands. 

_(Persephone, the beating heart of life itself, and Helen, Mother Gaia’s beloved, beauty of the earth and sky above.)_

Because she said she always wanted a sister, but what she meant was she always wanted an equal. Someone to laugh with and share with, someone who saw all the ugliest bits of you and was just as monstrous. There was a beast prowling beneath Izzy's skin that had clashed with the one simmering behind Clary's eyes when they first met.

And Izzy could finally see it.

* * *

Isabelle discovers 3 very important things about Clary that day, and what each of them mean. 

  1. Her full name is Clarissa Adele Morgenstern, and she is the heir to 3 mighty bloodlines.



Morgenstern is the name forced upon her, wreathed in the blood and destruction placed there by her father. But it's an honourable name, bolstered throughout history by brave shadowhunters and downworlders alike (though those are forgotten, of course). Her mother's maiden name was Fairchild, the family of creators famous for their inventions and forgiving hearts.

With a sad smile, Izzy is told that Fray is her youngest name, born of gratefulness for an almost warlock and remembrance for the world her mother had to leave behind. It is the name of her childhood, the name she grew up under and believed to be hers. It is the name of her mundane life and, as such, is the one Clary looks upon with the most fondness. _(Whenever anyone asks Clary her name, it's always Fray, then Fairchild and then, with a wilted sadness, Morgenstern.) (Isabelle never tells anyone this.)_

  1. Clary was an only child. She had to choose Simon.



Simon became her brother, but first and foremost he was Clary's friend. This means that, no matter what Simon did, there were times when Clary was alone. These are the times she doesn't like to talk about. _(Isabelle soothes her through the nightmares anyway.)_

Loneliness creates things, acts as a catalyst for great and terrible events. The loneliness Isabelle went through had mutated her into something deadly, something damned. Clary's had crafted her into a being of sharp words and soft touches _. (Isabelle thinks it's worse. The pain streaked across Clary's face tells her she thinks so, too.)_

  1. Clary was raised with kindness.



When Isabelle first hears this, part of her thinks it means Clary was raised to be gentle. To be weak. And it doesn't matter how much she hates the thought because it's there, because that's how _she_ was raised. (Sometimes the voice in her head sounds like her mother's. Clary never asks why that's such a frightening thing when Isabelle tells her after she woke up screaming one night, and she's thankful for it)

But the monster that roils beneath Clary's skin is beautiful and sharp and stained golden with sunlight, and Izzy thinks that if it were real, it would be a prowling, terrifying thing, with claws that topple mountains and wings that would cast the world in shade. Isabelle thinks sometimes -when the shadows are a shade too dark and the only light is a fading streetlamp- that she can see the outlines of great wings cast from Clary's back, and she wonders if Clary is really just an angel cast to Earth to repent. 

She debates whether that would make a difference to the love she sees Jace gift her, and then realises it wouldn't; he already knows. After all, Jace can _see_ now, and you'd have to be truly blind to miss the fire that emanates from Clary.

Especially when her loved ones are threatened. Because then those great wings are spread, the glory of an angel falling in her eyes as she plans vengeance on those brave enough to stand against her _. (Isabelle calls it stupidity, so does Jace.) (Alec doesn't see it yet -the danger in Clarissa Morgenstern's love- but he will. It is only a matter in time.)_

* * *

Isabelle tells her these things once.

Clary tells her gentleness is its own kind of strength.

* * *

Clary doesn't watch her with affection, or dismiss her as someone to be protected- in fact, she doesn't dismiss her at all. The way Clary treats her is refreshingly simple: as an equal. They laugh together, and mock others together. Isabelle finds herself being softened by the other woman's presence, but not overbearingly so. It's like Clary smooths over only her deadliest edges, the ones that she might otherwise turn upon herself. It's... good.

So when Clary asks her to be her parabatai about 10 minutes before they have to leave on a hunt, Isabelle isn't surprised, or even remotely shocked. There's just a warm, pleasant feeling rising in her.

"Yes," she says, the memory of ice on her tongue distant and forgotten. Clary smiles, unrestrained and soft and, because they’re alone in the living room, Isabelle lets a small smile slip loose in return. Sister, friend, parabatai and soulmate. The word slips into the list of what Clary is to her as if it was always there.

_Perhaps,_ she muses as they clasp each other's arms in the common embrace of the parabatai for the first time, _it always was._

* * *

 The ceremony ends in shiver of stars across the night sky, and Isabelle feels the connection sink into her core until it rests intrinsically alongside her bones, even as the mark remains only just gently gracing her skin.

The world hasn't changed, hasn't tilted off its axis or crashed into a demon realm. But Isabelle can tell her life has altered by difference in the emptiness cradled within her ribs. It’s lesser, somehow. Not as strong, as undefeatable, when it rises into her throat to suffocate her.

Day to day stuff is the same, she still fights demons and argues with her brothers, still makes disgusted noises when Clary and Jace return from a too-long sparring break rumpled all the way to Hell. Except now she can feel Clary's soul alongside her own, golden and thriving and terrifying in its righteousness. She can feel the monster that simmers beneath Clary's eyes alongside her own now, and she thinks that it feels better.

Her claws are still deadly, her teeth still sharp and stained with blood, but she isn't empty any more, doesn't have a reason to have them constantly unsheathed. Because with Clary at her back, Izzy is safe enough to be vulnerable and weak. With Clary at her back, Izzy feels comfortable enough to be _kind_.

With Clary by her side, Isabelle finally begins to move forward.

_(Helen of forgiveness, of benevolence, of healing. Helen of ascension.)_


End file.
